Christmas Carol Murder (A Lucy Stone Mystery) (3 page)

“Really?” Lucy was bagging her groceries in the reusable bags that her daughters Sara and Zoe insisted she use.

“Yup. He kept an eye on the dented cans, the day-old bread, even the marked-down meat. He loved a ba rgain.” She paused. “That comes to a hundred thirty-six dollars and seventy-four cents.”

Lucy swiped her debit card and punched her code into the keypad. “I guess I’d be rich, too, if I didn’t spend all my money on groceries and gas and clothes. . . .”

“That’s the secret,” said Ike Stoughton, who was buying coffee, sugar, and creamer for his office. “Jake didn’t spend much, that’s for sure. Never paid more than he had to. I’ll miss him, though.”

“You’re one of the few,” Dot said dryly.

Lucy knew Ike, a neighbor, was a highly regarded surveyor. “Did you do much work for Marlowe?” she asked.

“Not too much lately, but a few years ago he took a lot of land by adverse possession and I did the surveying for him.” He paused, then cocked an eyebrow. “He didn’t pay much, but he was as good as his word and he did pay on time.”

Lucy, whose husband, Bill, was a restoration carpenter, knew that all too often clients held back final payments, demanding work they hadn’t contracted for, and sometimes paid late or didn’t make that final payment until threatened with a lawsuit. “Old time values,” Lucy said. “You don’t see them so much anymore.”

“These days most people can’t afford them,” Dot said.

“True,” Ike agreed, taking his package and nodding toward the big plate glass window at the front of the store. “Looks like snow,” he said, and Lucy saw the sky was filling fast with dark clouds.

A
few snowflakes were floating about when Lucy turned off Red Top Road and into her driveway, but they melted as soon as they hit the ground and there was no accumulation. The house was empty, except for Libby the Lab, who gave her a perfunctory greeting before turning to her main interest, which was sniffing at the grocery bags Lucy had set on the floor. She found the one with the chicken in a matter of seconds and Lucy quickly grabbed it and hoisted it on to the kitchen counter.

“Okay,” she told the dog. “I know it’s hard, all this food and nothing for you.”

Libby sat on her haunches and stared at her with her big brown eyes. “I’ll play the game if you insist,” she seemed to be saying, “even though we both know I’m the boss around here.”

Lucy obediently began digging around in the grocery bags until she found the bag of beef jerky treats and gave a couple to Libby, who wolfed them down. “That’s all, now,” she said, in a firm tone, and the dog slouched off to settle down on her bed. There she set her chin on her paws and watched with interest as Lucy put the groceries away.

That chore done, she popped a chicken and some sweet potatoes in the oven, then began unloading the dishwasher. From time to time she peeked out the window to check on the snow, but it wasn’t amounting to much, so the roads would be okay for her returning family members. Zoe was the first to arrive home; now that her friend Amy Whitmore had a driver’s license she got a ride with her most days, shunning the school bus.

Bill was next, in his pickup truck. He was a restoration carpenter and had landed a big contract converting an old meetinghouse in nearby Gilead into a walk-in health clinic. He sniffed the air, decided it was chicken roasting, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Shall I open that chardonnay?” he asked, and receiving a nod, got to work with a corkscrew.

They had just seated themselves at the round oak kitchen table with their glasses of wine when Sara blew in. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, unwinding her scarf, striped in the green and white that were Winchester College’s colors. “I forgot the time.”

“No problem,” Lucy said, sipping her wine. “Dinner won’t be ready for another fifteen minutes.”

“Great.” She thundered up the back stairway and slammed the door to her room shut.

“Funny,” Bill said. “I thought girls would be quieter than boys.”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Lucy said, laughing.

Promptly at six, what sounded like a herd of elephants but was only Zoe and Sara came pounding down the stairs, looking for dinner. The girls quickly set the dining room table while Lucy dished up the chicken, baked sweet potatoes, green beans, and salad.

“So what’s new?” Bill asked, slicing into the chicken with his carving knife.

“The junior class is having a toy drive for Christmas,” Zoe said. “I’m in charge of publicity.”

“I can help with that,” Lucy offered, serving herself salad. “What about you, Sara? Is the college holding a holiday fund-raiser?”

Sara was helping herself to a baked sweet potato. “Charity at Christmas is just a sop, to make people feel good about themselves. The Social Action Committee is working for real economic justice. When we achieve that, charity will be unnecessary—everyone’s needs will be met.”

“A lofty goal,” Bill said.

“And until then, a lot of people right here in Tinker’s Cove are in need,” Lucy added.

“And the little kids shouldn’t have to suffer,” Zoe said. “Not at Christmas.”

“Christmas is just a day like any other, that’s what Seth says. He says Christmas is just a corporate gimmick to get people to spend money they don’t have and to distract them from the real problem, which is an economic system that benefits only one percent of the population while the other ninety-nine percent are struggling.”

“Who’s Seth?” Bill asked, zeroing in on an unfamiliar male name.

“Seth Lesinski. He’s amazing, Dad. He’s the leader—Well, there are actually no official leaders.... He facilitates SAC.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, he calls the meetings and presents ideas for action, like the protest we had the other day against Downeast Mortgage.”

“Sounds like he’s the leader,” Bill said, helping himself to seconds.

“No, the whole group has to vote.”

“Still . . .” Bill began.

“He’s very good looking,” Lucy interjected. “At least that’s what Sue says.”

“SAC is not about looks,” Sara said, her cheeks flushed with color. “It’s not about appearances. It’s what we do that’s important.”

“You’ve got to admit he cuts quite a dashing figure,” Lucy said. “That scarf he wears, and that camo jacket fits like he had it tailored. . . .”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mom.”

“Just an observation,” Lucy said. “By the way, I’m auditioning tonight. The Community Players are putting on
A Christmas Carol
and Rachel wants me to be Mrs. Cratchit.”

“Sentimental Victorian drivel,” Sara sniffed.

“Do you really think you can act?” Zoe asked.

“Where are you going to find the time?” Bill asked. “That’s if you get the part.”

“Not much chance of that,” Sara scoffed.

“Rachel thinks I can do it. She asked me specially to audition.”

“She’s probably just being nice,” Zoe said in a consoling voice. “You don’t have any acting experience.”

“She’s right, Mom,” Sara said. “You have to have talent to act. Some people can and some people can’t. It’s genetics.”

“You’re going to be too busy, anyway, with Christmas and all.” Bill ended the discussion by changing the subject. “What’s for dessert?”

When Lucy left the house the girls were busy clearing the table and loading the dishwasher, Libby’s nose was buried in her dish, and Bill was watching TV. There was about a half inch of wet snow on the ground and she drove cautiously. She’d never auditioned for anything, so she didn’t know what to expect, but she thought she might enjoy acting. She was, she admitted to herself, excited at the prospect of trying something new. Wouldn’t it be great if she got the part? That would show those naysayers at home!

When she arrived in the basement meeting room at the Community Church she found a handful of people sitting around a couple of tables that had been pushed together. Rachel was there, of course, and so was Bob, her lawyer husband. She recognized a few other people, including Marge Culpepper, and Florence Gallagher, whom she’d recently interviewed for a feature story about the children’s books she’d illustrated.

Rachel greeted her with a smile. “Great, you’re here, Lucy. I think we can get started. As you can see, I like to keep things very informal. We’ve got scripts, so we’ll read a little bit, and if you have any experience acting, please tell me. Bob, I think we’ll start with you. Can you read Scrooge’s lines on page five?”

“Is Bob going to be Scrooge?” Lucy couldn’t see it. Bob was the sweetest, nicest man she knew. He had a reputation as a bit of a bleeding heart and much of his busy law practice was pro bono.

“Bah! Humbug!” he growled in a very convincing way, and they all laughed.

After he’d read a few lines, complaining to Bob Cratchit about giving him a day off to celebrate Christmas with his family, Rachel thanked him and turned to Lucy.

“Lucy, do you have any acting experience?”

“I do,” Lucy said, dredging her memory and coming up with a nugget. “In kindergarten I was Ferdinand the Bull’s mother. As I recall, I had a line about how Ferdinand liked to sit quietly and smell the flowers.”

“Practically a professional,” Rachel said, when the laughter subsided. “I want you to draw on that experience and read Mrs. Cratchit’s lines on page thirty-five.”

When Lucy finished, Rachel nodded. “Very nice. I think you’ll be great.”

“You mean I got the part?”

“Absolutely,” Rachel said.

After an hour or so Rachel called a break and Lucy struck up a conversation with Marge, who was married to the town’s community affairs officer, Barney Culpepper. Marge was going to play the role of Scrooge’s housekeeper.

“I wish I’d gotten a more sympathetic role,” she said, pouring herself a cup of decaf at the refreshment table. “She pawns his stuff before Scrooge is even buried.”

“It’s just a foreshadowing, right? It doesn’t actually happen,” Lucy said. “Just like Tiny Tim doesn’t die.”

“Oh, now you’ve wrecked the ending for me,” Marge teased.

“Talking about endings, have they made any progress on the fire investigation?”

“Quite a bit of overtime, which comes in handy this time of year. The problem is there are too many suspects. Practically anybody who has a mortgage from Downeast has a motive and that’s most everybody in town.”

“Not everybody knows how to make a bomb, though,” Lucy said.

“There are instructions on the Internet,” Marge said, choosing a chocolate frosted donut. “And a lot of folks in town are very handy, used to making do.”

“That’s true,” Lucy said.

Rachel called them back to work, and when they’d all gathered again at the table she made an announcement. “I’m very happy to say that I think we’ve filled all the parts, and I’m confident we’re going to have a terrific show. Some of you are veterans with the Community Players, so you know the drill. Each actor is expected to raise a hundred dollars by selling ads in our program to finance the production.”

“You mean we have to pay to play?” Florence asked, raising one beautifully shaped eyebrow. Lucy knew she must be well into her forties, but thanks to moisturizer, hair color, and visits to the gym, she looked much younger.

“That’s one I haven’t heard before,” Rachel said, “but that’s about it.” She paused. “Is this going to be a problem for anyone?”

“Can we help some other way?” Florence asked. “I could help with the scenery, for example. I hate to ask people for money.”

Rachel sighed. “I know things are tight for everyone right now, and I don’t want anyone to leave the show because they can’t sell a few ads. Let’s just leave it that I expect everyone to do their best to come up with the suggested amount.” Receiving nods from the cast members, she moved on. “Okay, let’s do a read-through and take it from the top.”

Friday morning Lucy was crowing about getting the part of Mrs. Cratchit, despite her reservations. She had loved rehearsing, especially enjoying the lively company of the other amateur actors. The evening had been full of laughter and a growing sense of shared purpose.

“Way to go, Mom,” Zoe said, giving her a high five as she ran out the door to catch her ride.

“Break a leg,” Sara muttered, offering the traditional advice as she poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it back up to her room where she was working on a paper.

“I guess I won’t be seeing much of you,” Bill said, poking his egg with a fork and making the yolk run out. “What with rehearsals and all.”

“I’ve put the schedule on the fridge,” Lucy said, spreading some marmalade on an English muffin. “Rehearsals are seven to nine most evenings.” She took a bite and chewed. “It’s not like we even talk to each other much after dinner, anyway. You usually do fantasy football on the computer and I watch TV. It will be good to shake things up a bit.”

“I suppose,” he said mournfully.

Lucy chuckled. “I think you’re the actor in the family.”

Bill had the good grace to blush. “I will miss you,” he said.

“Come to the rehearsals, then. You could help backstage.”

He was quick to come up with a reason to stay home. “Someone should keep an eye on the girls,” he said, wiping his plate with his toast.

As Lucy tidied the kitchen she set her mind to considering who might be willing to buy an ad. Most of her friends were watching their pennies with Christmas taking up any spare change. Her old friend Miss Tilley was a possibility, until Lucy remembered that Rachel had probably already asked her. Who, she wondered, as she wiped the counters, was likely to support local theater?

She was rinsing out the sponge when she remembered a series of articles she wrote in September profiling local people with surprising hobbies. The fire chief, Buzz Bresnahan, was a theater buff who traveled to New York City a couple of times a year to see Broadway shows. And his daughter, Alison, was studying theater at Ohio University. Deciding he would be her first target, she dried her hands and reached for her jacket, intending to make her first stop of the day at the fire station.

But when she arrived at the station the ambulance was pulling out of its bay, lights flashing and siren wailing.

She ran inside and caught the dispatcher’s eye. “What’s up?”

“Medical assistance at Downeast Mortgage,” Krissy Kirwan replied, one of Dot’s numerous offspring who worked in public safety. “Sounds like a heart attack.”

Maybe it was news, maybe it wasn’t, Lucy mused. There was only one way to find out, so she got in her car and followed the ambulance down Main Street to the Downeast Mortgage office. The office was in a neat little brick building that had once housed a bank. Stone steps with black wrought iron railings led to a plate glass door, with a window on either side. The ambulance took up most of the small parking lot, so Lucy parked on the street. She hurried to the door, hoping she could slip inside without being noticed, because she knew from previous experience that the rescue team didn’t appreciate an audience.

She was just reaching the stone steps when the door flew open and Ben Scribner flew out. From his wailing you would have thought the hounds of hell were pursuing him instead of his faithful secretary Elsie Morehouse.

“You’ll freeze out here, Mr. Scribner,” she begged him. “Come back inside.”

Scribner was standing in the inch or so of snow that was on the ground, shivering in the light sweater he wore over his oxford cloth shirt and khaki pants. His thinning white hair was standing straight up on his head, his eyes were wide with fear, and a line of saliva was dribbling down his chin. “No! No! Get away!”